


Interview with a Trash Tornado

by OllyOllyOxenFree



Category: Others possibly - Fandom, Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Blood, F/F, F/M, Gen, M/M, Minor Violence, Others possibly - Freeform, cursing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-07
Updated: 2016-11-07
Packaged: 2018-08-29 17:16:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OllyOllyOxenFree/pseuds/OllyOllyOxenFree
Summary: To date, a series of unconnected drabbles that, as of right now, are Undertale-centric. May or may not have distant connections to my other works, Laughter is the Best Medicine and Good Bad Vibes. Honestly, just a compilation of different, self-indulgent, half-formed ideas that could spawn longer works in time. Enjoy this garbage can of words.





	1. Spin

It’s the same routine.

Every day you wake up, shower, get ready for work, and walk to the stop to wait for your ride on the trolley. You like walking just as much as the next guy, but not up these hills. So you wait. You don’t mind that you don’t have a car. Public transportation can be reliable. Sometimes. Ok, maybe that’s a bit of a stretch.

Or rather a lie  _as loooong_  as the amount of time you have to wait for the trolley every so often. You’re really fine with it as long as you get to the stop with plenty of time to spare.

However.

Today is not that day.

The night before, you had been working hard on a paper due the day after tomorrow. There is absolutely no motivator quite like last-minute panic. You can’t be all that mad at your procrastination tendencies. After all, some of your best work comes out right at the finish line. You just wish it wasn’t so soul-crushing in the process.

So you had started your paper-writing bender in the evening, sustaining yourself on coffee and nerves, working long into the night and the next morning. You’d just finished your rough draft and as you rubbed your face, caffeine exiting your system, you eye’d your bed with all the desire of a dying man in need of water. Just forty-five minutes you told yourself. Insanity and sleep deprivation go hand-in-hand and rationalization is their modus operandi. As you laid yourself down, setting no less than five alarms, you asked yourself right before falling asleep: how could this possibly go wrong when it feels  _so right?_

As it turns out, nearly everything.

A shaft of light hits your face. You grumble, exhausted. What the hell, why does it seem so much brighter than usual? Brighter…? Sun. Morning…. WHAT  _TIME_  IN THE MORNING?!

“Fuck!”

You lunge out of bed, scrabbling for your phone. As you look at the time and frantically get dressed, you think to yourself, shitshitshitshit. You should have been on your way to the stop by now. You feel so gross, tired, and panicked as you rush downstairs and throw on your backpack. You rush to open the door and lock it as quickly as you can. You’re running to the stop, hoping today the trolley would be a pal and extremely late like it has been before. Your eyes widen and you groan loudly in frustration. The heaving hunk of painted red and green metal is just pulling away. Should you just wait for another? NO. Who  _knows_  how long it will take until another arrives. You inhale a deep breath and start pumping your legs and arms even faster, taking after the trolley. Your backpack is slapping against your back. Adrenaline pushes you forward. You can do it, you can do it. You’re very slowly gaining on it, but then it starts picking up speed. Your heart lurches between its frenzied beating.

“No no no no,” you pant in dismay.

You’re completely focused, hand reaching out for the metal bar. Almost there. You close your eyes and put your last vestiges of energy into a final sprint. It’s now or never. You grab ahold of something. YES.

But it’s not metal.

You open up your eyes and you stare at your hand. That’s not the bar…. Is that a hand? It looks like a hand alright. But bleached white. And  _distinctly_ bony. You follow it up to a grinning skeleton.

He yells to you in a deep voice, “need a hand?”

His sturdy phalanges grip yours tightly and you don’t have long to think or respond as he pulls you up with a strength greater than you anticipated. You gasp as he hoists you onto the trolley, hands coming up to your shoulders to make sure you’re steady with the sudden change of momentum. You're slightly bent, chest heaving, trying to catch your breath. You look up at the skeleton’s eye-sockets, his pupils bright in delight and victory. You laugh a bit breathlessly and wipe your hand across your forehead to clear the sweat.

“Wow, thank you. That was awesome. Let’s never do it again.”

He barks out a laugh, releasing your shoulders, and sticks out the same hand, “the name’s sans. sans the skeleton.”

You smile and take it, shaking it firmly, intrigued by this new character. “No kidding. I’m ___. ___ the human.”

He grins. “ya don’t say.”

You finally let go of his hand and lean back against the railing, exhaling heavily as the adrenaline vacates your body. He mirrors you on the opposite side, one hand holding the bar and the other in his pocket. He tilts his head as he looks at you, grin still on his face.

“so what’s the story?”

You look up, confused expression on your face. “Huh?” You manage to get out as you push your hair out of your face and behind your ear.

He chuckles, “usually people don’t expend that much effort, or look so…frantic, unless it’s for a good reason. at least i wouldn’t, me bein’ a lazybones ‘n all.”

You laugh, teeth flashing, corners of your eyes creasing in mirth. “Typical late night paper procrastination stuff. Wholly unexciting and not worth running to catch my ride.”

He nods, enjoying your laughter. “paper, huh? go to school?”

“Yeah, at the university a couple stops ahead.” He smiles wider, interested. You continue to talk until the trolley stops and you look around at the familiar buildings giving way to dense trees and the soft green slopes leading up to the university. Your stop. You step off and turn around to say goodbye, but you see Sans stepping off with you. He catches you giving him a questioning glance.

“coincidentally, this is where i get off too.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and shifts on his feet. “sounds like ya need some coffee though. wanna get some with me?”

Your mouth lifts into a tired smile. “I’d love some. I’m desperate." You adjust your backpack, putting your hand on your hip as you point at him. "I’m buying though.” Sans shrugs, but his face betrays his enthusiasm at your agreement, eye-lights vivid and focused. It's an expression that hooks you, leaves you excited to see more.

As you both walk to the nearest coffee shop, you rummage in your bag for your wallet. You stop and Sans turns to you, curious. You groan. Of course you would forget something. It’s always something.

You exhale, frustrated, blowing your bangs out of your eyes. “I’m not even surprised.”

Sans casts a glance over your backpack and he puts two and two together. He flashes you a content smile.

“don’t worry about it. i’ll get it.”

You look at him, concerned and wary. “You sure?”

He taps the dark space where his nose would be, lazily winking at you. “yep. no skin off my nose.”

The ridiculousness of the morning finally crashes down on you and you double over laughing, loud and long and boisterous. You are so tired. Sans laughs as he watches you, happiness budding inside him and making its way through his bones at the sound of your laughter. You finally straighten and wipe the tears from your eyes.

“Thanks. Next one’s on me then.”

You come up next to him and you both start walking, smiling all the while.

“it’s a date.”


	2. Good Bad Vibes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, you may know my longer work Good Bad Vibes, but DID YOU KNOW that it started off as a drabble? 
> 
> Here it is, in that initial copy. You can check out the full thing in my works.

You place your hand on your hair, the strong wind threatening to blow it right into your face. You wish you could just cut it all off. But that won’t do. The wind carries with it a heat; a promise of summer. Underneath all of the smoky smells of the city, you catch the scent of trees and the varied sounds of bustling life.

This is New Ebott.

You walk down the sidewalk through the throngs of people. Tall buildings throw geometric shadows, crisscrossing the streets into a shady latticework; some peaceful in their depth, some malevolent, all awe-inspiring. You look at the faces you pass by. Seemingly “normal,” whatever that word means, but almost all are freaks, criminals, or degenerates of some kind. As unpredictable as a jazz line. It leaves you to wonder where you fit in. You obviously do…somewhere. You just have yet to find out. You stick your hand back in your pocket and idly finger the hole you made in it.

While in your musings, you attempt to cross the street. That is, until a loud honk jars you from your thoughts and a grubby man in a rusty yellow taxi starts yelling at you. Not again. And why today?

You yell back, “Hey, watch out bud, can’t ya see I’m walkin’ here!”

He throws out his arm, face red, “You’re lucky you got a pretty face, toots, or I’d pop ya one good!”

You bristle and walk past the taxi, deciding it’s not worth it. _Except_ for one last jab, “Yeah, yeah I’d like to see ya try, tubs. Now get outta here!”

He speeds past you and you hit the tail end of his cab with the flat of your palm. You exhale hard and continue your way to the joint you like to call your second home. You approach and look at the sign hanging over the door, the paint chipping off, but in a classy way, you know? Makes it look lived in. You open the door and step into Grillby’s.

Monsters you’ve seen before turn their heads, curious, but when they see it’s you, they give you small waves. You return the gesture and make your way to the bar. Grillby, the on-fire-ever-so-hot owner, is behind the counter in his usual place. He’s dressed smartly in a crisp white shirt, black vest, and armbands. How his clothes don’t catch on fire, you have no idea, but living this long in this town, you’ve learned not to ask too many questions. He looks up at you over the rim of his glasses and gives what you’ve come to assume is a smile. You hop onto one of the stools and cross your legs. You lean forward onto the bar and cross your arms as well.

“Hey G. Got a remedy for a gal who’s had a rough day?” Your voice goes a little hushed. “Preferably strong.”

He crackles and responds in his sibilant tone, “I’ll see what I got.” He points a finger at you. “But it’s only because I like ya.”

You chuckle as he disappears into the back for a moment before coming back out with a dark glass with liquid in it. You could be drinking anything. Water, perhaps. Tea, maybe.

But only you and Grillby _really_ know it’s whiskey. Neat.

You take a sip and close your eyes, sighing at the heat as it goes down. You raise your glass to Grillby. “The water of life, G.”

He laughs and leans one arm on the bar as he picks up the glass he was polishing.

“So what’s got your day so rough?”

You attempt to wave off your troubles with your hand as you say, “Work. And damn taxi drivers.”

He raises his eyebrow at you. “Again?”

You roll your eyes at that. You guess it _has_ happened a bit frequently. But you place your hand under your chin as you take another sip, flashing Grillby an award-winning smile. “I think it’s just my magnetic personality.”

His flames glow brighter as he hisses in laughter. “Or your fat mouth.”

You laugh, long and loud and rhythmic, giving Grillby another salute. “Touché.”

He’s about to say something else, when you hear the door open, warm breeze traveling in and kicking up your loose pant legs. You turn on your stool to get a better view, but don’t stare long. Gangsters. If you ain’t got business with ‘em, buzz off. Now these guys, compared to others, are the good guys. Keep places safe, make sure the area’s clear of hooligans and nuts who want to fight, all that. Everyone knows what they really peddle though. The three M’s: money, moonshine, and magic. They play a dangerous game and you would do well to try and stay out of it.

The gangsters that have walked into Grillby’s don’t look all that frightening to you, but looks are deceiving. Today, the house deals two pairs: dogs and skeletons. They range in size; the largest is one dog, then the taller skeleton, next the stockier one, then the other dog. But all dressed to the nines in sharp three-piece suits. That’s what the three M’s get ya.

As they slide into a booth, Grillby walks around the bar with a confident air. He caters to many different crowds, and especially to those who supply him with the beverage you’re enjoying yourself. You take another sip and focus on the bar in front of you.

Grillby strides up to the table. “Afternoon G.D., L.D., Papyrus, Sans.”

The dogs wag their tails and the tall skeleton responds with a cheery, “Hey Grillby!” The shorter one nods and waves.

Grillby smiles and nods back. “The usual I take it?” Everyone nods as Grillby leaves to fill the orders.

Papyrus leans in, voice hushed more than usual. “We must stay vigilant. W.D. heard some rumors that something might happen today. We do not know where.” Everyone nods their understanding, discreetly checking to make sure they have their guns, should any crashers show up. Sans also scans the joint. He knows the exits and entrances pretty well. If anyone showed up uninvited, they would come through the front. As his eyes move across the room, recognizing most of the patrons, he sees someone he doesn’t at the bar. He lingers. They’re dressed in a smart pant suit that hugs the waist _just_ right he thinks. His eyes flick up as Grillby approaches with the orders. After he’s done setting them down, Sans taps Grillby’s arm, motioning him close. He tilts his skull to the bar.

“who’s the doll?”

He looks back to you at the bar. He groans inwardly. Even though Sans is a nice guy, he doesn’t want you to get involved with this crowd.

“A regular. Just not when you are.”

Sans grins. “well, maybe i should go welcome them.”

Grillby raises his eyebrow. “I should warn you, they’re a bearcat.”

Sans waves him off. “nothin’ i can’t handle.”

“Good luck.” Grillby says as Sans gets up from the table. Papyrus waves down Grillby and starts to inform him of what he’s heard.

Sans saunters over to the counter, sliding onto the stool beside you. You’re nearly finished with your drink when you notice the stockier skeleton suddenly next to you. Ah, hell.

He speaks, “come round here often?” His voice is low, with a slight gravelly quality. You glance at him. He’s shorter than the other skeleton, but taller than you. His sockets are dark except for two vivid white lights. He also has a grin stretching across his face. You wonder if it changes. You don’t really want to answer him, but it’s in your best interest right now to play along.

“Depends who’s askin’.”

He smiles even wider and holds out his hand. “the name’s sans. sans the skeleton.” You look at his hand and only wait a beat before grasping it.

You yelp and rip your hand from his as a small burst of electricity jolts you. You hold your hand and laugh out of shock, staring at him as Sans laughs uproariously.

“sorry, couldn’t pass that up. special order from my friend, Dr. A.” He removes the buzzer and holds his hand out again. “let’s try that again. sans.”

You laugh even more and shake his hand, forgetting for a moment that he’s a gangster. You haven’t been pranked in a while, and it makes you smile. You’re always up for a good joke, no matter where it comes from.

“___.”

“so what brings ya to this neck o’ the woods?”

You think and decide to be honest. Nothing bad comes from telling the truth, right? “A rough day.”

Sans nods and folds his hands on the bar. “and how’s the water treatin’ ya?”

You give him a sidelong glance. “Does just the trick. Guess I should be thankin’ ya for it, huh?”

He chuckles and shrugs. “me? naw, water’s free ain’t it?”

You salute him and shoot down the remaining bit of disguised amber liquid. “You got a point.”

Sans is about to say something else, when the door opens again. You hear several pairs of footsteps and turn. Sans turns as well and his eye-sockets widen.

He hisses, “shit,” right before the group pulls out their tommy guns and the grimy human leading them shouts, “Dust ‘em!”

Everyone scrambles for cover, including Sans, who throws up a table for cover with his magic before he grabs your waist, dragging you down with him. You land and hunch over, groaning from the impact. Shit. This is such a perfect ending to your day. You hurriedly stick your hand into your pocket, pulling out the small .38 pocket pistol you keep strapped around your thigh. You look over at Sans who’s taking his own gun out, peering around to check the situation. The bullets echo out in the small establishment and a few hit your table. You duck your head.

Hell breaks loose even more as you hear more shots coming from Sans and you assume the others. You grimace and hiss at him, “Don’t you have magic?”

He turns his skull to you quickly, winking. “yeah, but ya can never have enough bullets.” He twists back around and shoots until his gun clicks. Most of the men are gone, and Sans manages to take one out before running out of bullets. He curses and sits back against the table.

“Looks like ya need more.” He chuckles as he reloads. He turns his attention to you.

“when it’s quiet, get outta here. the coppers’ll be here soon no doubt.” You nod and open your mouth to reply, but one of the men appears behind Sans. He doesn’t notice right away.

But you do.

You take both hands and aim straight over Sans’ head. His sockets darken and he whips around just as you shoot the man in the shoulder, making him stumble backwards and drop his gun. Sans scoops it up and aims it at his back as he runs away. The guy stumbles out the door just as Sans takes the shot, missing him.

“damn it!”

You hear the man yell, “I know your face!” as he runs away. Your face blanches and you look at Sans, who stares at you, brow furrowed.

He yells, anger in his voice, “l.d., get ‘im!” You hear footsteps race out the door.

Sans calls out, “paps? g.d.? grillby? ya good?”

Papyrus yells back, “Everyone is all right. They are terrible shots!”

You stand up, a bit shaky on your feet. You’ve never been in a real firefight before. You would rather not do it ever again. L.D. runs back in and over to Sans. Your heart jumps in your throat. His eyes are sorrowful as he shakes his head, whining.

Sans growls. “son of a bitch musta gotten picked up already.” He pats the dog’s head. “thanks for tryin’ l.d..”

He turns back to you, expression a bit worried, but more determined than anything.

“ya ok?”

You nod and put your pistol back in its holster.

He gives you a faint smile. “guess i should be thankin’ ya for that, huh?”

You brush off your suit and return his smile at the echoing of your words. “Well…. It couldn’t hurt this time.” He chuckles at that.

He moves close to you, rummaging in his pockets. He takes your hand and sticks something in it. You look down and flip it over and over. It looks like a business card.

“i’m sorry we couldn’t get the guy. call us if anything happens.” You look into his eyes, worried. Gangsters cut straight to the chase. You can expect anything to happen now. You don’t know how they’d find you with just a face, but you’re sure they’ll find a way. It would be stupid now to not ask for help. You set your jaw and nod. You all start as you hear sirens. He squeezes your hand before stepping away with his group.

“let’s scram.” They all run out. Grillby strides over to you.

“Are you ok?”

You nod, focusing on him. “Are you? God, sorry about your place. I can come back to help clean up.”

He starts ushering you to the backdoor. “Don’t worry about it, they’ll compensate me. Just get home safe. Call me to check in, ok?”

You nod and step into the alleyway. Grillby watches you turn and run away, disappearing into the crowds. He shakes his head, extremely worried for you. You’re in deep now, whether you want to be or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: ollyollyoxenfreelitbm.tumblr.com


	3. As We Know It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It probably won't take long for you to realize the inspiration for this one. But I don't see post-apocalyptic fics for UT much at all, and I certainly haven't read any. I'm hoping to take this one out on its own once I finish LITBM or GBV.

There’s nothing to it really. Just jump. Just a series of muscles flexing, one doesn’t even really have to use their brain. The human crouches, their jacket snapping in the breeze. Seems like the only sound for miles. The wind trails down, winding through the open and cracked street to a trickling creek below. It wouldn’t hurt to fall, it’s not that steep of a drop. They’re cautious nonetheless. Not being careful can so easily get someone killed. Their keen eyes narrow in on their target, a wooden pallet maybe four feet away. Sweat beads along a round face. Despite their lean body only holding well-used muscle, the fat never truly left those cheeks, softening the edges of a harsh life. A hard life earned and learned by the multitude of scars on their body and the focus and stubborn will of their mind. They take a few steps back and hop on the balls of their feet. A rough pack slaps a taut back. Once, twice, and then the human sprints to the edge, jumping off with a strong kick. They sail through the hot air and what they wouldn’t give to just be a bird and leave in that moment.

The pallet teeters on the brink of instability as the human lands on top of it with a crack that echoes vibrantly across the deserted plane. Their arms whirl, trying in a desperate attempt to right themself.

“Shitshitshit…,” you hiss.

The air hangs, watching. Then a hefty, but relieved sigh signals success. You step off and your heavy boots scuff along the dirty ground, a smile lifting your chapped lips. Dry. You open your weathered canteen. Scratched into it, in some semblance of order and control, is the name: **_____**. You take a quick swig, then pour a little into a cap. Just then a large, coal-black raven alights on your shoulder, about two feet long from beak to tail with a wingspan about twice that you guess. His glossy feathers gleam blue and purple in the dying light as he shakes his wings and digs his talons in.

“Hey, Otto. Thirsty, too?”

His dark, intelligent eyes scan your face before dipping his thick beak into the water, drinking it up. Otto gives you a throaty, thankful croak and plucks at your earlobe gently. You chuckle. You’ve come to assume this is his version of a kiss. You cap the canteen and secure it back around your hip, right next to a long and wicked bowie knife. Its sharp twin sits on the top of your belt at the small of your back. Circling around to the other hip is a pistol. Not to mention the stash you have in the shifting, worn canvas backpack. Can never have enough weapons.

Not out here.

You continue walking along the desolate, and achingly empty, cityscape. It’s just a skeleton now, having long since been abandoned. The broken concrete and brick facades jut out of the weeding ground, geometric ribs that cast long and ruinous shadows across the streets. Those veins, the lifeblood of the town, are now just broken, empty channels. Dust litters the wind. Dust that claims the city, naming all of its former and temporary inhabitants. A baptism of heat and rust and dirt. The fucking Rune it’s hot. You love the attention of the wind though, close cropped hair flicking and dancing with it in the afternoon light. Your chest rises and falls deeply as you soak up the sun, that heat that reminds you so much of life, especially in a world so full of death and uncertainty nowadays. You wipe the sweat from your face and exhale heavily. At least you’re as prepared as you can be. If not, well…it’s nobody’s fault but your own. And all in all, you’ve turned out luckier than most. You’re alive, relatively healthy, and have a companion. Despite being just a bird, Otto is an incredibly smart one. And he talks. Well, as much as a bird can. He…responds. Knows how to react, get things, alert you if the need arises.

And it does. Often. Like right now.

Otto’s head swivels and he puffs up, a ringing caw beating upon your ear before he takes off. His wing knocks your head with a snap. You curse. It hurts, but only because he wants you to know danger is near. Dread sinks inside you, thick and sinister. You crouch behind a building, back pressed to the cool brick, ears straining to listen. You hear footsteps and instinct causes you to unsheathe your knife. It’s heavy in your hand. You try to breathe evenly, but all that hisses past your dry lips are short, spastic breaths. Your heart flutters in your chest, like Otto’s feathers in the wind. A drumbeat that’s growing steadily louder and faster. Now’s not the time to be scared. But…it never gets easier it seems. There are multiple pairs; some are slow, some quicker. No clicking, thank god. You just need to get a quick look, see what you’re up against and if it can be avoided. Maybe just Runners this time. You take a step, creeping ever closer to the corner.

The steps halt and retreat.

Except for one pair.

They’re slow, but that’s all you can make out, the wind and your heartbeat too loud in your ears. Sweat slides down your dirty face and your hand itches to wipe it away. But your body won't even allow _that_. You vaguely hear Otto call again as he circles overhead. Your mind wanders irresponsibly. No wonder ravens get such a bad wrap. They always seem to bring portents. Whether good or bad, it’s up for debate. You feel stretched, too thin, ready to snap from the stress. And then you do, because the steps pound to your hiding place. Thought is gone; all that’s left is instinct. The kind that screams and rends the fibers of your being: _IT'S EITHER YOU OR THEM_. You spring, knife raised, a cry on your lips.

And then you can’t move. A tremendous weight seems to slam into your chest, but from the inside out and an abrupt thought pushes its way to the forefront of your stunned mind.

_Is this how I go?_

It’s been a good run. You give one last look at your infected killer. However, they are neither of those things.

They aren’t infected.

You’re not dead.

Your eyes widen and you gasp, taking in the striking and devilish visage of an actual, walking, honest-to-fucking-goodness skeleton. Their sockets are dark except for the left. It’s flaming, a monstrous blue and yellow eye, flashing and dangerous. Your eyes follow his jacketed arm out to his clawed hand, where at the tips, sits what looks to be a heart-shaped crystal. On the outside is a solid blue sheen, thicker than glass, but on the inside, roiling, is a midnight purple. The kind you always saw in the nebulas of the night sky or at the very end of the day when the fat sun has just dipped below that wayward horizon. It reminds you of the late and relaxed sunset on a Saturday, back when Saturdays had meaning. You’ve heard the stories. Monsters have been on the surface long enough. Long enough to see everything go to shit.

A halting chuckle slips past your lips. Your voice is nothing more than a whisper to the wind.

“S-so that’s what it l-looks like, huh.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: ollyollyoxenfreelitbm.tumblr.com


	4. Enough

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I could write a longer length thing on Asgore (AKA have any sort of time for it), I totally would. His character is so interesting to me and how he might react to life outside the Underground is something I've always wanted to explore. This is just a taste of it.

_These hands_.

_Could I have…?_

_What kind of hands are these?_

Asgore looks out onto a vista that, if he were anyone else, any other monster, it might’ve taken his breath away. It tries. With every true ray of sunlight, with every brush of chilled wind, and with every clear breath of fresh air, it tries. However, almost in spite of the beauty before him, everything seems to be painted in this unrelenting shade of grey.

And highlighted by red.

_And what kind of monster are they attached to?_

~~~

_Tired._

That’s a feeling that frequents his body nowadays. He’s tired. Compared to everything before, this could be considered the home stretch. It’s not without its difficulty, though. There are meetings as far as the eye can see. And now, as he’s up on the surface, they stretch all the way to the horizon. He has to push forward though. If not for himself, then for those who count on him. He’s determined to do right by them, make up for what he’s done, for what he wasn’t able to do.

_And maybe…._

His dark eyes meet deceptively cold, reddish-violet ones. Anger is all he sees. She looks away first.

~~~

“It’s not safe.”

“Do _not_ tell me what is and is not safe! I _know_. I have not needed your help in a very long time and I do not need it now,” Toriel hisses.

His fatigue begins to give way. Slipping. Replaced.

“Tori—”

“Do not call me Tori.”

He grits his teeth, his fangs beginning to protrude as he grimaces.

“Toriel, I only want you and Frisk safe.”

She scoffs, “Was that before or after you tried to kill them?”

“ _Toriel!_ ” he roars. “I am _trying!_ Does that not count for _anything?_ ”

She leaves without another word. He just sinks into the chair while his clawed hands rise to hide his face. Hide the tears that fall and plaster down his fur. He closes his eyes, but he still can’t get those small faces out of his mind.

~~~

He’s not so sure about this. Much less about…anything.

But a party?

He believes it’s good for morale, for his friends. But he feels very much the opposite of a party right now. He does want to see everyone.

_Even if some don’t want to see me._

He shakes his head and shoulders. He should be there. And it’s that decision that lands him amidst a group of very happy monsters and humans alike. As he looks to his friends, he begins to feel some measure of their mood; the ecstatic and excited Undyne and Papyrus—two peas in a pod if he ever saw any—the calm, nearly-bored Sans, the nervous happiness of Alphys, and of course Frisk and Toriel. He doesn’t linger for long on her, though part of him wishes it. Their interactions, when necessary, have been rocky at best.

So he steers clear.

It’s warm. The sun beats down and heats his fur, his spiraling horns casting long shadows over the yard. Even this seems like a meeting. Greeting everyone who comes up, shaking hands, discussing things he’d rather leave for another time entirely. After the last couple leaves to go mingle somewhere else, he rubs his face and beard, sighing heavily.

“what’s with the long face?”

Asgore’s hand drops, as well as his gaze, swiftly toward the diminutive skeleton by his side.

“Hello, Sans.”

“how’s the weather up there?” Sans asks with a broad grin.

Asgore smiles faintly and looks back up into the sky. “Sunny.”

“really? seems a little cloudy from way down here.” Sans holds up his hand in front of his face, shielding it from the sun as he winks at Asgore. He chuckles, dark eyes scanning the crowds. Unfortunately, they meet Toriel’s eyes. Those warm orbs turn into an icy glare. He looks back down into his drink, gritting his teeth.

Sans whistles low. “and cold.” Asgore grimaces.

Some more people walk up to them both and Asgore straightens, keeping himself together to do his duty. He’s about to open his mouth and greet them, but Sans interjects. He pushes past the tall monster, holding up his hands.

“heya fellas. ya don’t have drinks? such a shame, they’re right over there. made by the former queen herself, alright.” Sans guides them smoothly the other way, not giving them time to think or object. Asgore stares, amused and impressed. And thankful. “ya like jokes, too? well, i gotta few, but i know a guy who has the best ones, that tall, cool skeleton over there. yep, just say sans sent ya,” he says, chuckling and winking. Both monsters watch them walk away, before Sans takes his place beside Asgore once again.

“Thanks,” Asgore whispers.

Sans shrugs, a lazy smile lifting the bones of his face. “everyone needs a break sometimes.” His smile widens. “'specially me.” He points to the cup in Asgore’s large hand. “needa refill?”

Asgore glances at his near-empty drink. “It is alright. I can get more, myself. Thank you, Sans.”

Sans just chuckles and suddenly the cup is out of his hand, floating over to Sans’. He’s about to walk off for more when he pauses. “it’s ok to ask for help sometimes, too.” He leaves for the drink table and his increasingly loudening brother.

Asgore shoves his hands into his pockets, glad for the lull. The claws of his right hand tick along something hard and thin, something he can’t remember putting there. He pulls it out. His brow knits as he reads it, eyes flitting between the small card and Sans. The card turns end over end.

The same could be said of his thoughts.

~~~

Asgore wrings his paws together, feeling very foolish on the undersized couch. Undersized for him, he supposes. He couldn’t fit in the chair.

“I am not sure where to begin. I have never done this before.”

A chuckle. “Well, let’s just look at your paperwork.” Some pages flip. The woman’s kind eyes scan the words, assessing, searching. Ms. Dunn, he remembers. She looks up. “Mr. Asgore-”

“Just Asgore, please, Ms. Dunn.” he interjects with a soft smile. She returns it.

“Alright, Asgore. You can call me Jo, by the way.” His smile broadens a bit. She continues, “Why are you here?” His face falls.

“For help,” he answers, almost immediately.

“What do you need help with?”

“I…,” he stops, thinking. “I am not happy. Though I feel I should be.”

“Why do you feel you should be?”

He raises a brow at her. “Is it not obvious?”

She smiles again. It eases him somewhat. “Maybe. But I’d rather you tell me.”

He looks down. His claws dig into the fur of his hands. “Well, we are on the surface now. That is something to be happy about. And…I am. In a way.”

“But not the way you expected?”

“I suppose.”

“Has something happened since being on the surface that might cause you to be unhappy?”

“Not quite.”

“Before then?” she asks.

He opens his mouth to speak but finds no words. So he nods, his towering horns sweeping the air.

“Does it involve loved ones?”

He nods again after a moment.

“Would you like to talk about it?”

He’s not sure if he’s even mentioned his name once since it happened. A part of him knows he should. But, even after decades of time, the pain seems as fresh as ever. And that’s why he shakes his head, unable to say anything because he’s afraid his sorrow will truly betray him the moment he opens his mouth. He can’t look up when she speaks again.

“That’s alright.” But he does when she asks, “What do you like to do?”

He clears his throat. “Do?”

“Like a hobby or activity.”

He smiles, weak and sheepish.

“I enjoy gardening.”

~~~

And so he gardens. And meets with Jo. Months pass by. He takes care of the flowers, tends to them with a gentleness that is so at odds with the violent acts those same hands have done. They turn their bright faces to the sun and, soon, he finds he sees those faces slowly replacing the ones he’s desperately tried to forget. He discovers a kind of solace in his routine. He can take care of these things. Keep them alive, prevent them from dying. Show them love. He doesn’t have to think much when he’s outside. He sees his friends quite often now, which he enjoys greatly.

But he likes the quiet.

It was so loud in his head, anger and revenge and a multitude of other poisonous thoughts clamoring for attention, crowding him day in and day out in the Underground. He thinks he might have resigned himself to never hearing silence ever again. Unless he willed it.

But he wasn’t strong enough even for that.

And now. The hot breeze stirs his long hair, breaking around his horns, teasing his shirt and fur. There’s a hint of smoke and something sweet in the air. He raises a hand to his brow for some shade. The sun is so bright. The flowers so yellow.

~~~

_Today’s the day_.

He stares up at the crisp red lettering of the sign he’s so accustomed to seeing now, every Saturday. He was feeling ok. Good, even. But now, that cornered, fearful part of him – growing less and less every day – tries to whittle down his resolve. He pushes it away. It’s like Jo said, only he can make the choices and changes he wants to make. He’s a king, damn the Rune. He’s done it for long enough. And he’s kept this to himself for long enough. So he steps inside.

A pair of reddish-violet eyes focus, examining. They flick up to the sign.

Asgore makes himself comfortable on the couch once again.

“How are you today Asgore?”

“I am well, and yourself?”

“Just fine,” Jo says with a smile. “So what would you like to talk about today?”

His fingers lace together. “I would like to talk about what happened.”

Her eyes widen imperceptibly, but she nods, her smile softening. “Are you sure?” He nods. “What made you decide?” she asks.

“I cannot hide in the dark any longer.”

She just inclines her head. “Go ahead, Asgore. I’m listening.”

“I have given it a lot of thought. I…I have done many things I am not proud of. But those all began a-after…,” he pauses and he can’t stop the tremble in his chin. His mouth moves, open and closing. His footing lurches. The tears prick his eyes. “After I l-lost my children,” he barely manages to get out.

Jo isn’t smiling, but her face is still open and kind. No pity. Only understanding. Asgore gives silent thanks for that.

“To what?” she asks.

“They were k-killed.” His breath leaves him. It almost feels like he’s drowning. _They were killed…._

She nods. “You had a wife, correct?” He nods. “Was she there with you?”

“Yes.”

“How did you both react?”

Asgore bows his head in shame. “She, with grief, yet tolerance. I…with anger.” Asgore could never say what he’d done in retaliation. He’s accepted that it’s his burden to bear for the rest of his life. There’s no forgiveness for what he’s done. He’s not sure he actually wants it. He certainly feels he doesn’t deserve it. But, if he can come to terms with what happened, then maybe he can find some version of peace. A place of quiet.

“She could not stand what I’d done, so she left,” he says, his deep voice thick and muted. His broad hand rubs his chin and cheek and he huffs, an attempt at stilling himself. He tries not to think about it, but he knows there’s not a day that goes by without him missing her. That he’s not infinitely sorry. But if the events surrounding the time of their reunion were any indication, he doubts she’d ever stop in hating him long enough to listen. He’s relinquished himself and his hope to that fact.

A question rouses him. “Did you ever grieve?”

His head raises, answering hers with a question in his own dark eyes.

“Did you ever stop and truly grieve for the loss of your children?”

His eyes dart around as he wracks his mind, sifting through the years. “All I felt for many years was anger.”

“Anger is normal. But their loss is real, Asgore.” He can’t fight the tears now. They drip down into his fur, weaving dark tracks. “Accepting that is the first step. Your next is to let yourself grieve. And then, you can work on adjusting and _living_ life without them.”

He hears her. He stores the information away. But once again, he’s unable to act. So he goes through the rest of the session, feeling marginally better for saying it aloud. But he thought it might’ve turned out differently. Been more cathartic, a great reveal to the peace he’s so longed for. But he still feels tired.

He wonders if he’s even capable of grieving after so long.

He steps out into the sunlight, looking down, lost in his thoughts when he nearly runs into someone else. He reels, stammering out an apology, “I am so sorry, excuse me—” He catches their face.

“T-Tori—Toriel?” he gapes, correcting himself in his surprise.

He’s taken aback and for two reasons. One, she was the last one he was expecting to run into.

And two, her face lacks that same look of hate she holds every time he looks back at her.

He’s also taken aback because she looks concerned. And curious.

“Asgore,” she responds. She tilts her head. She’s tall, but still needs to look up at him. Her jaw works for a moment before asking, “Are you well?”

If his fur could have gone any whiter, it would have. “Y-yes, thank you,” he replies, keeping his voice from shaking.

_Why am I so afraid? It’s not like I could get any lower in her eyes…._

He shakes his head clear. That kind of thinking helps no one.

“I apologize, but I must go,” he says, avoiding any further embarrassment. “Forgive my clumsiness.” He pauses. “I hope you and Frisk are well.” He turns and strides away before she can answer, back to home.

He doesn’t hear her say, “We are.”

~~~

Asgore prepares for the fall. These days, his fellow monsters are becoming more and more comfortable being on the surface; adjusting well, settling in, raising families of their own. He still remembers what that’s like. He’s happy for them. Actually happy. So he keeps going through his routine. Enjoying the chill creeping over the world, reaching its tendrils into the ground and trees, his house and his fur.

He’s kneeling on the crinkling, dry grass, clipping dead trimmings off of his plants. His hands slow. Small droplets fall and he almost doesn’t notice them. Only until larger ones start does he notice. Realizes when his face crumples into his paws; heavy, choking sobs wracking his body.

“They’re gone….”

_They’re gone and they’re not coming back. Nothing I do can get him back._

_Was that all it ever was? All those_ children _? Did I actually think I could somehow get my own back through the souls of others? Wasn’t it just revenge?_

So many questions pass through his mind at once, and he doesn’t know how to answer any of them. But he does know this is what Jo was talking about. This is grief. Wishing he’d done anything differently, wishing it wasn’t true, but it is and there’s nothing to be done now. He can only ride this storm and then…move on. And another question rises in the commotion.

_Can he?_

~~~

He receives an answer of 'Slowly, but surely.'

_Very. Slowly._

Because every day after that fall afternoon is…something. It’s work; hard and bitter and hardly _ever_ fair and honest. But he’s working. No day is the same. As he goes to his meetings, his sessions, gardens, and sees his friends, the work just…becomes part of the background. He becomes used to it. And that allows him to get better. He was so afraid. How could he ever forget what happened, forget his children? But he begins to realize moving on doesn’t mean forgetting. He wrestles with his feelings and thoughts, finds a place for them to rest. Some days he wakes up feeling as if he deserves to live in this new world that has claimed something from him as much as he’s claimed something from it. Other days, he wonders if he deserves anything at all.

It’s a slow process, but those moments become fewer and farther in between.

He’s watering his plants when the doorbell rings. He puts down the can on the windowsill, his brow furrowing. He strides over to the door, wondering who it could possibly be. He opens it wide, the wood swinging steady on creaking hinges. His eyes widen.

Toriel is standing on his front step, framed by the light and, he thinks, as beautiful as ever. Between them stands a happy Frisk, a smile stretching their face wide. He would laugh if he wasn’t so shocked. They’re every bit a barrier as the one they broke in the Underground.

“Hello, Asgore,” Toriel says with all the grace and timing of a queen. Some things never go away. Frisk waves vigorously with one hand. The other is holding a plate wrapped in foil.

He regains his composure. “Good afternoon, Toriel. And hello, Frisk.” His smile is calm and sincere. It really is good to see them. In his opinion, it’s been too long.

_But necessary_.

A long pause ensues. Toriel coughs slightly before asking, “May we come in?”

“Oh!” he exclaims. He stands back, sweeping his arm inside. “Yes, please. Make yourselves at home.”

“We brought you pie!” Frisk chirps. Both Toriel and Asgore smile down at them.

“Thank you very much, little one,” he says, deep baritone kind. His eyes flick briefly to Toriel’s.

“Could you please take that to the kitchen, Frisk?” Toriel asks. They nod and run off to find their destination. She turns to Asgore now. “I apologize for coming over so suddenly.”

“It’s alright. I was just,” he gestures to the flowers, “watering.”

She tilts her head to the side, intrigued, large eyes fixated on the flowers. “May I?” she asks.

“Of course,” he replies. He watches as she bends and inhales, inspecting each petal, admiring the size, shape, color, and smell of each one. He wants to ask why she’s here. He wants even more to say all of the things on his mind. But part of him also wonders if that time, the time to sit down and talk, has truly gone. He feels like he’s tried. Maybe he just didn’t try the right way. He doesn’t know. Though he does know he doesn’t see that hate in her face anymore.

That almost stresses him out more.

“They are beautiful.”

He meets her gaze. “Yes, they are. So many varieties up here,” he says, almost offhand. He doesn’t know what else to say.

“Asgore, I-” she starts. But in a swift spurt of courage that shocks him almost as much as her, he raises his large paw to stop her.

“Toriel.” His arm drops and he has no idea what to do with his hands now. So he balls them in his pockets and steels himself.

“I have something to say and after, it will be the last of it. I know you do not want to hear any more, but…I-I need to say it. Please.” She waits and listens, straightening and clasping her hands in front of her. As good a go ahead as anything. “I do not expect you to forgive me, not anymore. I do not deserve it. I must live with what I’ve done. But know that I am sorry I caused so much pain. To everyone, to you most of all.” He draws a shuddering breath. “Asriel is gone. Chara too. I was wrong to think I could ever do anything to reconcile what happened. I…I-I’m sorry.” He swallows the lump in his throat, clearing it. Blinking rapidly. “That’s it,” he ends lamely. Not exactly a grand send-off, but it’s out there and that’s what matters. He expects anger, some kind of fire maybe.

“Thank you.”

Her voice is barely above a whisper. He looks up, staring at her. Whereas his tears are on the verge of falling, hers seem to have already taken the leap. He always hated to see her cry. And right now, he wants nothing more than to comfort her. But he’s lost that privilege. It’s no longer his. He sees the sorrow he’s felt reflected in her red-violet eyes, glistening. With it is an acceptance he’s just now starting to become familiar with. The tension that he’s held tight in his gut, that’s been roiling since she arrived, releases and something intangible exchanges. Nowhere near joyful satisfaction. But, rather, it’s an easing. A relaxing of the tossing waves.

And that’s enough.

“Mom?”

Both adults jump at the sound of the tiny voice. Frisk holds onto the doorway, brow creasing as they watch and try to understand. Toriel holds out her hand to them.

“It is alright, Frisk. We were just talking,” she reassures. They walk over and take the soft paw.

“Can we have pie now?” they ask. Toriel and Asgore both smile. She meets Asgore’s dark eyes now.

“Yes. Let us have pie,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: ollyollyoxenfreelitbm.tumblr.com


	5. Wreck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote an incredibly sad drabble a while ago centered around the first chapter of LITBM and if just one thing happened differently. You just never know with car wrecks.

Tumbling.

Shrieking metal.

Rending wood.

Obliterating darkness.

~~~~~

Sans rips the door of the truck from its frame, the twisted metal cluttering to the ground. He and Papyrus gaze inside with shocked eyes. Blood. There’s so much blood. The human’s face is covered in it, like a sick, slick mask. Their right arm is wrenched at an odd angle from their body and Sans knows it’s broken. Something moves in the dim haze, heavy and thick. The blood. It’s spreading, a slow sea across their shirt; oozing from the right side of their abdomen like a deadly spring.

“Oh, human….”

Papyrus leans inside and tears the buckle from its clasp, gently lifting them from the driver’s seat. Sans backs up to make room and watches as Papyrus sets them on the ground with the utmost care. His eye-lights shrink when they gloss over the dark splotch of crimson across Papyrus’ chest. Sans kneels beside the human and Papyrus, white bones digging into the disturbed grass and dirt.

A groan.

Both brothers lean in. Sans catches now more than ever the strangely rich and acrid scent of blood.

“hey pal, can you hear us? we called for help, just hang on.”

“Yes, human! You will be alright, as my brother and I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, have saved you from your unfortunate accident!”

Sans begins to feel a stifling sense of dread settle in his bones. He sees them open their eyes, glazed and unfocused. Their left fingers twitch, searching. Something formless and so ingrained in Sans causes him to slide his fingers around their hand. His soul knows something he doesn’t. Not yet.

They groan again, soft words tumbling in pieces out of their mouth. “St…s-stay…. Plea…se.”

Sans hears the sirens and catches the flashing lights coming over the top of the ridge. He looks back down, smile strained.

“don’t worry. we’ll be right here.”

But they’re out again.

~~~

Everything happens so quickly. The emergency vehicles pull up and surround the area, working efficiently. The police usher Sans and Papyrus over to ask them questions while the EMS people crowd around the human. Sans’ eyes focus on their faces.

Grim.

He looks away.

Not twenty minutes later, one of the EMS professionals walks up to the brothers.

Papyrus asks, “How is the human?”

The man doesn’t answer right away. His eyes are resigned, mouth set. Sans recognizes that look.

“They’re asking for you.”

Code. Papyrus seems to catch his drift because he quiets and leads the way over to the human. He and Sans kneel once more beside them. They’re considerably more aware of their surroundings now, eyes still dull, but not lacking in a sharp glint that Sans believes they use often and love to do so. They slide lethargically over the brothers, taking everything in. Their lips lift.

“What're your names?” They sound so small to Sans.

Papyrus gestures to himself then Sans as he answers, “I am Papyrus, and this is my brother, Sans.”

Sans waves, an ache settling in. “hey kiddo.”

Their smile widens the slightest bit. “I’m ____.”

_____. Their name is ____._

“I,” they close their eyes as they swallow to clear their throat, “wanted to thank you.”

“Of course, human!”

Sans nods, responding with a faint smile, “no problem, lefty.”

Their eyes flick to Sans with an energy he hasn’t yet seen in them. Their smile lights up and illuminates their eyes. The ache digs even deeper into Sans. Because as they look at him, he _looks_ at them. For just the briefest bit of time, they brighten inside and out. He’s jarred into focus when their hand reaches for his again. He takes the offer. They squeeze weakly, but his more than make up for the lack of strength.

Their voice is even softer now. Slipping. Off-kilter. “M’s-sc…red….” They trail off, mumbling now as their eyelids drop closer and closer together, tears spilling out of the corners. Sans’ hand tightens around theirs, hard bone around soft skin. He barely sees Papyrus clench his hands together out of the corner of his eye. Their grip weakens. Breathing catches, ragged. The spaces in between getting longer and longer. Sans listens. Because that’s all he can do. He listens until it’s all space.

And then he watches.

Their soul, _____’s_ soul, drifts out of their chest, glimmering weakly. It’s unstable though, forming and reforming, a mist of smoke that has no container. Not anymore. Sans catches the barest, but most beautiful shade of green and light before it scatters, rejoining the cool night air like a sigh. Small, stray tears find their way down his cheekbones. He can’t help it. Despite having seen a human die much more than he’s ever wanted….

It’s never been like this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tumblr: ollyollyoxenfreelitbm.tumblr.com

**Author's Note:**

> As you can probably tell, I get ideas for writing most often when listening to music. I was watching Disney's animated short Paperman when I got this one. It's definitely inspired by it, but I hope you enjoy all the same. And if you haven't seen that short, GO SEE IT, it's truly wonderful.
> 
> Thanks for supporting my silly trash
> 
> Tumblr: ollyollyoxenfreelitbm.tumblr.com


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